


believe in what you can't

by Crimson_Voltaire



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternative Universe - Vampires, Blood Drinking, F/M, Graves is shy, Graves owns a bookstore, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Mugging, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Past Torture, Protective Original Percival Graves, Vampire Original Percival Graves, Vampires, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-01 12:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12705015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/pseuds/Crimson_Voltaire
Summary: "How good and thoughtful he is; the world seems full of good men, even if there are monsters in it."- Bram Stoker,DraculaCredence walks into a book store on a rainy day, and the world changes.





	1. A Human Walks into a Bookstore

**Author's Note:**

> This little monster came about after I found a picture of Colin Farrell looking rather soft and adorable, and I thought to myself -- what if Vampire!Graves owned a bookstore? Kudos to both Wanderingnork and Angst-Wizard on tumblr for helping me develop a headcanon into a full fledged story. 
> 
> Chapters posted weekly on Sunday, and the number may be subject to change. Right now, I'm looking at seven chapters. 
> 
> As always, all mistakes are my own. Title shamelessly lifted from Bram Stoker's _Dracula_

**September 18th**

It’s on the same street as Jacob’s bakery. Credence doesn’t know why he’s never really noticed it before today, but when the heavens crack open with a great boom and the rain comes down in stinging torrents, he slips inside _Graves’ Books_ without a second thought. The shop is dark and everything is… _old_. Heavy wood paneling and ornate carvings, chairs that look to be at least Elizabethan and stacks and stacks of books. Books _everywhere_. Upon entering, the scent of old glue hits Credence - a rich and comforting smell he remembers from his days as a small boy, bent over an ancient bible. It is one of the few memories from that time that makes his heart warm, and Credence rubs at his chest, catching his smile before it blooms fully.

A man sits behind a long wooden counter, perched on a stool. He looks up from an old leather bound volume as Credence comes fully inside the shop to the dinging of a little, cheery bell. He is miles of alabaster skin and dark hair which is swept back from his forehead and brushes the collar of his shirt. He blinks at Credence, coffee dark eyes wide with surprise and two caterpillar eyebrows which crinkle charmingly when he smiles. His teeth are white and straight and slightly too sharp. In short, he is stunning.  
  
“What can I do for you, darling?”  
  
His voice is crushed velvet over slate, a soft rasp after the finest whiskey. His lilt is Irish, a Dubliner Credence thinks, and it sits light and gentle in his mouth. Credence blinks, more at the nickname than the accent, and throws the shop-keep a small, shy smile.  
  
“I umm… I… Just the rain?”  
  
The man laughs, face breaking into a sudden grin. His teeth glint in the yellow light of the lamps, all shining white pearls. Something about them makes Credence uncomfortable, but he throws the thought aside. _Judge not lest ye too shall be judged_ , he thinks.  
  
“I can’t do much about that, but I can help you look for something to read if you’re wanting to wait out the rain.”  
  
He pushes off his stool and rounds the close edge of the counter. The shop-keep isn’t as tall as Credence, but he’s broader, with wide shoulders that taper to narrow flanks and good, strong legs. Well-tailored black pants compliment the shape of his thigh, paired with an expensive looking black waistcoat over a starched white shirt. His tie is as red as blood and he even has stick pins and cufflinks. _A proper gentleman_ , Credence thinks, hard to find in a city of fashionistas and bankers and businessmen willing to sell your soul to the devil for an extra dime.  
  
But when he gets close, the feeling Credence gets isn’t one you should feel around a gentleman. The sensation of your stomach hitting your pelvis is a strange one. Credence swallows, suddenly on edge.

“O-oh… No thanks… I can find my own way around.”  
  
The shop-keep nods. It’s almost as if he senses Credence’s uneasiness, for he drops his shoulders and looks up from beneath smoky black lashes, giving Credence a tentative smile.  
  
“Alright. I’ll be here if you need something.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
Credence wanders through the stacks, up and down the rows and through spine upon spine upon spine until he almost feels lost. It seems impossible that there are so many books in this place. It’s New York, the shops aren’t that big, considering astronomical price of rent. He stops suddenly, in a far back corner where it is dark and even more quiet than the rest of the shop. Something catches his eye, a symbol painted above the bookshelf. It’s a triangle, vertically bisected by a line, and a circle superimposed over top and it’s odd. Credence turns his attention to the books, thin and spindly fingers tracing along the spines of books that look to be rather ancient. They’re all leather bound with gold embossed lettering and bearing wonderful titles. His finger pauses over one in particular. 

_“Fantastic Creatures and Where to Find Them_.”  
  
The bell rings.  
  
He startles and glances up, shocked from whatever daze looking at so many old books had put him into. Credence shivers, brushing wisps of his curly black hair out of his eyes before he nimbly plucks the book from the shelf and selects an elegant high back chair to sit down on. The book groans when Credence cracks it open, a delicious sound. As he flips through the pages, Credence can hear the shop-keep and what sounds to be a little old lady puttering around the shop. He keeps an ear on them, listening to the lady describe a book she wants. The lady calls him Mister Graves. Credence nearly snorts and rolls his eyes at himself. Of course the man is named Graves, it’s _Graves’ Books_ after all.

Just then, something familiar goes flashing by, nabbing his attention. Slipping a finger between the smooth pages, Credence flips to a page containing the symbol painted on the sign he’d seen earlier. The triangle, line and circle.  
  
“The Deathly Hallows,” Credence murmurs, tracing a finger along the page.

_The Deathly Hallows is an insignia representative of a species of day-walking vampire which is thought to originate somewhere in Germany in the late 8th century…_

Credence starts, clapping the book shut. The sound is like a gunshot in the silence of the shop and he frightens himself. Then he laughs, feeling a little ridiculous. _Vampires_? He’d frightened himself over something like a vampire? Standing, Credence wanders through the stacks again, back towards the front of the shop. Graves perches on his stool again, but glances up when Credence approaches. 

“Found something, darling?”  
  
Credence nods, clutching the book close to his chest. He’s not sure what possesses him to buy it, but he figures if he doesn’t like it, he can always gift it to Newt for his birthday. The man is interested in these sorts of things. Credence hands the book to Graves, who glances down at it and chuffs a laugh. He almost feels offended, but the man smiles kindly at him. Graves punches in the cost penciled into the upper right hand corner of the introductory page, before looking at Credence again.  
  
“Seventeen - seventy five.”  
  
Hand diving into his pocket, Credence pulls out his battered wallet and hands Graves a crumpled twenty. Graves takes it with a smile, deftly making change with nimble fingers, before holding the book and the change out to Credence. He takes them both, slipping the change into his pocket and grasping the book to his chest again.  
  
“T-thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome, darling. Safe trip now.”  
  
Credence flushes, because he’s never been called _darling_ so many times in his life.  
  
“Credence,” he blurts, and then almost smacks himself in the forehead when Graves quirks a thick brow. “My name is Credence,” Credence tries again after a deep breath. Graves brightens, the confusion leaving his face.  
  
“Graves.”  
  
“I know, it’s on the sign.”  
  
Graves laughs. When he does, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles charmingly. Credence can feel his face growing hotter.  
  
“Thank you Mr. Graves.”  
  
“Any time, Credence. Come back soon.”

* * *

Later that night, in his room in the apartment Credence rents from Newt and Tina, he finally plucks up the courage to open the book again. It is filled with all sorts of information on various mythological creatures, including the one bearing the symbol he’d seen in Graves’ shop.

_The Deathly Hallows is an insignia representative of a species of day-walking vampire which is thought to originate somewhere in Germany in the late 8th century AD._ _Lore and oral histories describe a creature with claws and fangs of the upper canine teeth, known for eyes bearing only black with no pupil, iris or white of the eye. They are said to live more solitary existences than other species, banding together into close-knit covens of three or four. This species keeps victims alive for days..._

Credence shudders and closes the book again, self-consciously peering around his room. This is probably more suited to Newt’s interests than Credence’s, to be honest. He tucks it away on his shelf for safe keeping, until he can find wrapping paper and Newt’s birthday draws nearer. With that, Credence burrows under the covers and pushes all thoughts of the book and its strange symbol from his mind.


	2. Meet Me in an Alley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't wait until Sunday, so I've altered my update schedule to post every two or three days. Thank you for all the wonderful comments on the last chapter! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter as much as the last!
> 
> Warnings in this one for strong language and implied intensions of sexual assault.

**October 1st**  

The day dawns bright, if chilly, the first fingers of coming autumn making their presence known. Credence tucks his hands into his sweater pockets, watching rays of sunlight kiss the very tops of the skyscrapers. It will be a beautiful day.  
  
It’s his turn to help open the bakery today, and so Credence is on his way before the sun is up. It’s barely past five, but Credence doesn’t mind. He’s a morning person anyways. As he walks, he brushes by a few men in hoodies. Credence mumbles an apology and keeps going, but he can feel them falling into step a few meters behind. Their footsteps might be lost in the ever present noise of the city - dogs barking and traffic and sirens - but the hairs on the back of his neck are tickling. Credence picks up speed, just a little, trying to put some distance between himself and those men. Worn soles pound against cracked, gum strewn sidewalk in time to his heartbeat, getting faster and faster.

“Shit”, Credence whispers, “Shit, shit, _shit_.”  
  
A man comes out of an alley and Credence runs smack dab into him. A sudden elbow drives the wind from his lungs and he stumbles, wheezing, fingers clutching at his ribs. The two that had been following him swing towards the alley and suddenly Credence is hemmed in on all sides. Brick and flesh, grit and fists waiting. Credence pulls in a painful breath, trying to find his voice.  
  
“I-I don’t want any trouble. I don’t have any money.”  
  
One of the men, bald with Aryan Brotherhood-esq tattoos, cocks his head, smiling. His eyes, grey like storm water, glint in the morning sun. His grin is mean.  
  
“Pretty thing like you? Who says we want your money?”  
  
Credence swallows. The other two take another step, edging closer, driving Credence towards the skinhead in front of him. Credence’s hand dips towards his pocket, feeling for the switchblade he keeps. It isn’t there. There is only Credence’s thigh against his hand, beneath his jeans.  
  
He’s alone, at dawn, trapped by three men bigger than him and he has no defense. Sudden fear has claws, which sink into his heart. Credence can taste copper in his mouth. The big skinhead laughs.  
  
“Can I help you, gentlemen?”  
  
A familiar voice, soft and shy and gentle, calls from the sidewalk. It echoes off the dirty brick, reverberates off the filthy concrete, and rings in the early morning air. Two of the skinheads do an about face, swirling around like clumsy ballerinas to look at the newcomer. It’s Graves, the bookshop owner. He stands easy, hands in his pockets, shoulders rounded, relaxed. But Credence can see the predator in his eyes, studying the three gangbangers with a feline grace that sends shivers down Credence’s spine. In this moment, with the sun creeping down the buildings, shining in the obsidian of Graves hair, there is something unearthly about him. Inhuman. Credence’s instincts kick into overdrive, screaming for him to get away, get away, _get away_. And it has more to do with Graves standing there than his potential attackers.  
  
The men must sense it too, for the two followers glance at the big one. The gangbanger straightens, shoving his hands in his own deep pockets and mutters, “No. We’re just leaving.”  
  
He brushes by Credence roughly, knocking him with his brawny shoulder, and sweeps out of the alley with all the grace of a raging bull. His cronies follow, careful to keep their distance from Graves.  
  
Credence watches them go with something like disbelief tickling his gut. He looks at Graves and says, “What the hell.”  
  
Graves laughs, tossing his head back and closing his eyes. The sharp bark of his laughter breaks whatever spell had caused the hush to fall over the city. Suddenly, Credence’s ears are split with the noise of traffic and the screaming of sirens again. He jumps a little, startled, before creeping out of the alley and towards Graves. The man studies him now, intently. His eyes follow to Credence’s side, and he frowns.  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
“Yeah, just sore. Guy elbowed me hard.”  
  
Graves’ impressive eyebrows cant at a surprising angle, a tiny divot appearing in the skin between them. For some reason, some strange part of Credence wants to reach out and smooth it away. Another part of him, still on edge, is nervously shifting its feet and whispering for him to go.  
  
Credence wraps his arms around himself.  
  
“It will bruise,” Graves says gently. Credence shrugs.  
  
“I’ve had worse. But thank you, Mr. Graves. If you hadn’t showed up, I’d probably been in a lot more trouble.”  
  
Graves frown deepens, something dangerous flashing across his eyes like lightning, there and then gone as quickly as it appeared. His face smooths into something like an easy smile.  
  
“It was… well, not my pleasure, but I’m glad I was here to help. And please, call me Percival.”  
  
Credence blinks, “Percival, like the knight? Isn’t that a little old fashioned?”  
  
Graves rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch up in a grin.  
  
“Hardy har-har,” he murmurs, barely audible above the thrum of the city, “You are not one to talk, my friend.”  
  
_My friend_. Something like warmth blooms in Credence’s chest, radiating outwards from his heart and trickling down every nerve. He rubs at his chest, smiling. Whatever unease nestled in his heart starts to fade now, dissipating like blood in water.  
  
“I know.”  
  
Credence sucks in a breath, finding it much easier now. The ache in his ribs is subsiding, becoming a dull throb that will probably accompany him the rest of the day. And then his thoughts turn to Jacob and the bakery.  
  
“I have to get going,” Credence says, apologetic, “But thank you, again.”  
  
Graves nods, still smiling.  
  
Turning on one foot, Credence begins to head off towards the bakery. He twists his torso to throw Graves a little wave, and then begins in earnest off to the shop. Credence makes a note to visit _Graves’ Books_ again soon.

* * *

  **October 12th**

 The doorbell jingles when Credence comes inside. Graves sits behind the counter, as he seems wont to do. He’s holding an old fountain pen and has a little notebook before him.  
  
“Hi,” Credence says, strolling up to the counter. Graves glances up, a grin splitting across his face.  
  
“Hello, Credence, how can I help you today?”  
  
The shop is quiet. A few people wander around; an old couple browse through a section full of history books, and four tourists take pictures with the ancient furniture. On the second floor, on the balcony, a businessman has his nose buried in an accounting journal, leaning over the railing. And yet, it’s still so quiet in here, even with creaky old hardwood floors. So quiet he swears he can hear his heart beating.  
  
Credence shrugs and smiles, “I came to visit, I guess. What are you writing?”  
  
Graves’ handwriting is neat, but loopy and old fashioned in style, even older than what Mary Lou beat into Credence when he was small. It looks… Well, to be honest it looks a little like that Credence remembers from his lectures on 17th century handwriting. He blinks, craning his head to get a better look. Graves hums and turns the notebook so Credence can get a better look.  
  
He scans it for a moment, before blinking again.  
  
“It’s… Latin?”  
  
Graves nods, “Yes. I am practicing, so I don’t lose it.”  
  
“That’s… That’s impressive, honestly.”  
  
Graves chuckles, a little shy. He ducks his head for a moment, eyes falling to the page. Credence nearly loses his breath when the man smiles. Graves is beautiful like that, hair gleaming in the sunshine coming in from the windows, beaming ear to ear. His thin lips are the most wonderful shade of pink, eyes the colour of whiskey.  
  
“Thank you. Most people think it’s weird.”  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
Graves chuckles again. The sound has something catching in Credence’s chest - an emotion he’s scared to place.

The days go by and Credence finds himself spending more and more time in Graves’ shop, when he’s not at the bakery or at home.  
  
“What is it that you do Credence?” Graves asks one day, pushing around a trolley with books he’s just inventoried. Credence follows him around like a puppy, trailing fingers along book spines, but Graves doesn’t seem to mind. The question startles Credence from his thoughts.  
  
“Hm? Oh, me? I work at Kowalski’s Quality Baked Goods. I’m saving up money so I can go for my Masters.”  
  
Graves turns to look at him, hands full of books. He cocks his head, quirking a brow. Credence represses the urge to snicker at him.  
  
“Oh? What are you studying?”  
  
“Medieval history.”  
  
Graves brightens at the admission and something else clicks and slides into place in Credence’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think, or come scream at me on tumblr. My blog is luminis-infinite@tumblr.com


	3. I Don't Want To Believe You (I Can't)

**  
October 29th**

Autumn is well and truly settled in New York. The trees in Central Park burst with different shades of gold and orange and ruby, and the air has a distinctive and sometimes painful nip which nibbles at one’s ears and fingers until you bury them in your collar and pockets. Tonight the wind is particularly vicious, whipping between the tall buildings and spurring people towards the warmth of their homes. 

Credence walks back from Queenie and Jacob’s, filled with good food and good conversation, as light as feather. Not even the chill can dissuade the pep in his step and he’s smiling. Credence feels good, meandering down the street. It was a good day, and tomorrow he’s going to visit Graves, because there’s a particular manuscript Credence remembers one of his professors mentioning and –

There’s a scream, short and piercing.  
“Help! _Somebody_ please he-”  
  
And then silence. Someone smashes into Credence’s left shoulder, sending him stumbling forward a few steps, unbalanced. The stranger brushes by with a muttered curse and no one stops. They don’t stop for Credence, and they don’t stop for whomever it was who just pleaded for their help. Such is the way of New Yorkers. But Credence rights himself and sets off at a brisk pace, almost running, peering into the gaps between buildings. His heart thunders and his conscious roars, but Credence ignores it. He has to help. He won’t ignore them. He won’t.

Movement in the back of an alley between a tea shop and a cell phone repair store catches his eye. He enters the mouth of the alley slowly, cautious. His fingers flicker towards his pocket, brushing the solid metal of his pocket knife through the rough fabric of his jeans, tracing its outline. He’s made sure to carry it every day since his almost mugging a month ago.  
  
As his eyes adjust to the blackness, two figures emerge from the gloom. One is bowed over the other and a soft slurping meets his ears. He almost backs away, relief rising in his chest because this isn’t what Credence thinks it is – until the person shifts and a pale face emerges from the inky blackness of dark hair, as white as alabaster with eyes like coal. Blood drips in messy rivulets, thick and crimson, down its chin.  
  
He knows that face, those fine features, those wide soulful eyes, the dark brows which slash across a pale face.  
  
Credence shrieks, “ _Percival_?”  
  
Graves flinches, upper lip pulling back to showcase two wicked fangs, his nose wrinkling at the sudden noise. Credence yelps and stumbles back, towards the street and lamp light and safety. Only then does Graves seem to recognize him. Dark eyes clear, understanding flickering across them, before horror settles onto handsome features. Quickly, he wipes at the blood congealing on his chin, doing a better job of smearing it than cleaning it away. Credence turns, going to make a break for it, fully intent on getting as much attention as he can and leading someone, anyone back here to deal with this mess. Graves must know what he's thinking, because he straightens and bolts towards Credence at an inhuman speed, blurring out and into existence in a bone white streak. Graves' hand darts out, claws instead of fingers, and Credence tries to scream again. Immediately pressure descends over his mouth, cold like death. Credence goes to bite and it tightens.  
  
“It’s me, Credence,” Graves whispers, “It’s me. Please don’t yell, Credence, I promise I won’t hurt you. I promise I won’t, but you can’t yell, Credence. I can’t be seen.”  
  
Credence mumbles into his hand, and Graves studies him for a moment before removing it from Credence’s face.

 “You can’t be seen? What the fuck, y-you killed someone! _You’re drinking her blood_!”  
  
Graves flinches at the volume he’s producing. When he tries to clamp a hand over Credence's mouth again, trying to shut him up again, Credence ducks back another step, wrenching his arm from Graves’ fingers. Pain sears across his wrist. Credence hisses and brings his arm up, studying it in the dim light. Percival’s fingers left scratch marks along his skin, slicing through his sweater and shirt, piercing flesh. Blood oozes up slowly, thick and rich. Graves’ nostrils flare, his eyes flickering to Credence’s own before falling again. Disgust wars with terror in Credence’s belly, followed closely like anger.  
  
“She’s still alive, Credence. I’ll take her to the hospital when I’m done. She’ll be fine, she won’t remember.”  
Graves speaks quickly and quietly, desperate, like he’s trying to make Credence understand. Credence doesn’t want to understand.  
  
“W-what the fuck are you?  
  
“I think you know, Credence,” Graves murmurs, suddenly very sad. Credence snarls, pulling his arm further into his sweater and clutching at the scratches to make them stop bleeding.  
  
“No, I don’t! Vampires don’t exist, Graves. This isn’t funny! You’re some kind of freak!”  
  
Graves recoils, like Credence’s words have physical weight, like they actually hurt. Credence takes the opportunity to shuffle backwards a little further. It’s just his luck that Graves follows, moving so quickly he is nothing but a pale blur, and then a solid weight far too close for comfort. He’s also blocking Credence’s exit.  
  
“There’s more to this world than you realize, Credence,” Graves whispers, reaching out yet again. Credence smacks his hand away.  
  
“What, that all the shit in that book you gave me is true?”  
  
Graves nods, face grim. His eyes are human now, with whites and pupils and discernable irises, not just some black mass from corner to corner. His fingers are human again too, blunt when they wrap around Credence’s wrist. Those eyes, so deep and dark, bore into Credence’s own. Suddenly, he finds he can’t look away. Calm washes over Credence, quelling the panic rising like bile in the back of his throat.  
  
“It is, Credence. Every word of it. But I promise you’re safe. I promise I won’t hurt you. Even that girl over there, Credence, she’ll be okay by morning. I’ll make sure of it. But you can’t say anything, Credence. You can’t. It isn’t safe for you to say anything, alright?”  
  
Credence finds himself nodding. Graves smiles, and although his canine teeth are still far too large and sharp, he looks like the Graves that Credence remembers; soft and shy and gentle.  
  
“Go home, Credence. I promise everything will be alright.”  
  
Credence goes home. He turns and walks out of the alley as instructed, hands tucked in his pockets and his arm stinging. It is only when he is several blocks away that whatever the hell Graves had done to him begins to wear off.  
  
“What the fuck?” Credence whispers to himself, bringing a hand to the scratches on his wrist again. They’ve healed, already, nothing more than silvery scars.  
  
“What the actual fuck.”  
  
When he gets in, Tina comes to him immediately. Her eyes fall to the ribbons made of Credence’s sweater and her face screws up.  
  
“What took you so long, Creed? What the hell happened?”  
  
“I honestly don’t know,” Credence mumbles, rubbing the scars, “I honestly don’t.”

* * *

Credence doesn’t sleep well that night. Every time he closes his eyes, he can see Graves’ face peering at him from the darkness, bloodied and sad, eyes black like charcoal. He doesn’t know why the pained expression on Graves’ face agitates him so much, or why it makes coil of guilt tighten in his chest. The man is a freak at best and a monster at worst.

Snarling, Credence throws the covers back and practically launches himself upright. He scrapes a hand through his messy hair and sighs heavily, scrubbing roughly at his face. When he looks up, that stupid book is staring him right in the face. Credence groans. He scrambles to his feet and wobbles over to the bookshelf, yanking the volume from its place before diving back into bed. Snapping on his reading lamp, Credence flips to what's now a familiar page. Credence scans what he’s already read, and then forces himself to continue on.

  _\- said to live more solitary existences than other species, banding together into close-knit covens of three or four. This species keeps victims alive for days. Like most vampire species, these creatures possess innate and unnatural speed, strength and agility. Their fangs are usually an inch long, although there is variation by age, sex and individual. They are known to actively hunt their prey, although attempts at luring have been recorded._  
  
_Fire and staking through the heart are the only known methods of disposing of these creatures. According to a variety sources, severing of the head or limbs is ineffective._

Credence shivers and closes the book again, glancing around his room to make sure there’s nothing hiding in the shadows. He has no idea what’s going on, or what he witnessed, beyond the fact that Percival fits the book’s ridiculous description ridiculously well.  
  
There is more to this world than you realize, Credence remembers Graves saying, just before the fog settled over his brain. There is more to this world than you realize.  
  
If Graves is to be believed, then the world Credence grew up in – where demons and devils and monsters lay around every corner – then that world is real. A world he’s spent so much of his life trying to overcome. Credence chokes back a sudden sob, burrowing his face in his pillow and shutting his eyes against the phantoms, trying to sleep.  
  
He drops off somewhere around three.


	4. Things Said and Things Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos! This chapter is short, but I hope to post again soon in the next few days!

**  
October 30th**

Credence stands in front of _Graves’ Books_ , wondering just when exactly he lost his mind. The shop illuminates a warm, golden glow on a dreary and freezing day like today, practically begging him to go inside and enjoy the familiarity of its shelves and the company of millions of words. Except, Credence knows what darkness lurks in there, masquerading as some friendly store owner. It’s followed him around all day, a cloud of animosity that hangs over his head. Credence finds himself looking around every corner, checking back over his shoulder, wondering what might lie in wait a block away. He can’t stand the paranoia anymore.  
  
Credence grips the book he'd bought more tightly, knuckles groaning against the leather. Taking a deep, steadying breath which rattles in his ribs on the way down, he steps into the shop. The quiet inside is almost stifling; lacking the friendliness of earlier visits, it now bares down on Credence, pressing into his ears and settling on his shoulders like a blanket. Credence gulps, glancing around, before calling out.  
  
“Graves?”  
  
A door creaks open, Graves poking his head out of what must be the storeroom. There’s more books in there, and boxes. He blinks at Credence, shock rewriting the planes of his face. Then, fear flickers across his eyes, pure and honest. For a moment, Graves is a spider caught in someone else’s web, the hunter becoming the hunted.  
  
“I’m here to talk,” Credence says, gesturing at him with the book. Graves blinks again. He stands very still, unnaturally so - like a statue and it startles Credence a tad when he finally breaks his tableau and steps out into the shop.  
  
“Alright,” Graves replies uneasily. His boots click quietly on the floorboards. Despite being nearly as tall as Credence and heavier, Graves never hits a squeaky spot, Credence notes. Whether it’s an intimate knowledge of the shop or the feline way he walks, Credence can’t tell, but the observation makes him uncomfortable. It’s just another way to set Graves apart from a normal person, just another way that he’s _different_.  
  
Yet, it makes sense, Credence supposes, that a predator would walk quietly. Instinctively, he backs up a step, when Graves draws near. He pretends not to notice the hurt that flashes across the other man’s face. Graves rounds the counter and settles on his stool, resting his elbows down on the varnished wood and sighs.  
  
“Alright,” he repeats.  
  
Credence takes a deep breath.

“That girl, from last night, what happened to her?”  
  
“I took her to the hospital, like I told you. She won’t remember anything.”  
  
Credence wrinkles his nose, “How do you know?”  
  
Graves shrugs, “I altered her memory. Besides, I never let anyone see my face, so even if they did remember, they couldn’t identify me.”  
  
There’s a sudden sense of relief somewhere in Credence’s belly, and he hopes it’s relief that he won’t be associated with a serial attacker and not because he cares about Graves getting caught. He must be making a face though, because Graves wraps his arms around his waist, as if to protect himself from Credence. Fingers clench in fine fabric.  
  
“You’re angry with me,” Graves says simply.  
  
Credence balks for a moment, blinking at Graves with some sort of incredulousness. Angry? _Angry_?  
  
“You _feed off people_. And… And last night, what the _hell_ did you do to me?”  
  
Credence’s voice comes out sharper than he intended, a razor edge which cuts deep into Graves. It’s the exhaustion talking, it’s the fact that Credence is being worn down by old demons talking, but Graves doesn’t know that. The man draws back, leaning away from Credence on his stool. His eyes grow hard like flint.  
  
“It’s not like I have much choice, Credence. I don’t do it because I enjoy hurting people.”  
  
He pauses for a moment, and then lets out a shaky sigh. Graves relaxes ever so slightly, untwisting his fingers, which were close to ripping holes in his fine white shirt.  
  
“Last night, I calmed you down,” Graves says, “I didn’t want… I’m sorry, I had to protect myself.”

  
When Graves moved, his shirt came untucked, revealing just a smidge of pale skin. It’s different though, not alabaster like the skin on his neck or face, but silvery and ridged. Credence stares, mind racing as he tries to figure out what could cause those sorts of marks. He’s seen something like it before, somewhere, but he just can’t place it. Graves follows his eye and looks down, before growling unhappily and tugging at his shirt.  
  
“What are those?” Credence asks.  
  
“Burn marks,” Graves mutters, “Sometimes they heal properly, sometimes they don’t.”  
  
“ _Burn marks_?” Credence finds himself repeating, “People tried to _burn_ you?”  
  
Graves snorts again, cocking his head and working his jaw. Tension lines his brow, and his shoulders practically quiver with unease. He holds anger in every part of his body, his forearms flexing with it, ribs expanding when he takes in a short breath. It isn’t something Credence is used to from this normally soft-spoken and gentle man.  
  
“I’m a vampire, Credence. You said it yourself, I’m a monster. People don’t take very kindly to monsters.”

That statement sends him reeling. Credence’s stomach drops again in that uncomfortable fashion and guilt wells up like blood in a wound, sticky and heavy. He tries to speak, but for a moment his tongue won’t work.  
  
“I… I… I’m sorry,” he stutters finally, “I shouldn’t have said that.”  
  
Graves snorts again.  
  
“No you aren’t. You just feel guilty.”

Credence can’t deny that fact. But he will admit that calling Graves a freak wasn’t the best way to go about addressing the issue. There’s a rational part of Credence’s brain muttering that Graves’ can’t help being what he is. He both wants to listen to and squash that little voice.  
  
“No! I… I shouldn’t have called you a freak. I was just… I was afraid. And I mean… I didn’t… I still don’t understand fully.”

Because none of it makes any sense. Everything Credence has been taught since… _Her_ , everything he’s learned these last two decades leads him to believe these kinds of monsters don’t exist, that humans are the ones you have to fear. _Humans_ can lead you astray and into pain, but _vampires_?  
  
“Most people don’t.”  
  
Graves speaks with a sort of resignation Credence associates with damnation, with someone who’s fought long and hard and finally given in, given up. In his mind’s eye, Credence can see Graves last night, pale and almost shaking, practically begging him to understand. It’s a haunting image, in more ways than one. He shivers.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Credence says. Graves shrugs, eyes on the counter.  
  
“It’s not your fault,” he replies. Somehow, Credence feels like it is.


	5. No Way Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to remember promising people that things got better. I lied. They don't get better, at least not in this chapter. Sorry, not sorry.

A month passes, and Credence doesn’t step foot into _Graves’ Books_ again. He spends his free time surfing the internet on the laptop Newt got him for his birthday. He carefully makes notes of every website he comes across - of any information he gleans. The notes are filed away in a shoe box under his bed, hidden against the far wall where no one will be able to see them.   
  
There’s a lot of common lore about vampires and Graves throws a lot of it out the window. He can come out in the day, even when it’s sunny, with few visible effects. His fangs and claws retract, his eyes aren’t red, he doesn’t go mad at the scent of blood…   
  
There’s also a lot that Credence can’t answer on his own – garlic, invitations, mirrors, holy objects, hell, if a wooden stake through the heart would even work. Obviously Graves heals quickly, and the wounds he left on Credence healed abnormally quickly too. Credence palms the silvery marks absently, reviewing his notes again. So far, fire seems to be an effective method of injuring a vampire – it’s just a matter of proximity, and obviously at some point in the past, someone got close enough to Graves to try. Suddenly, Credence’s mind fills with the image of Graves on fire, of his flesh blistering, of the sound of his screams. Credence thinks of the scars he’d seen, thinks of them raw and fresh, the stench of burnt flesh. He makes himself sick, nausea cramping in his belly.   
  
Credence can’t wish that on Graves, can’t even stand to think about it. He rips his notes up, and flushes them down the toilet for good measure.

**  
November 27th**

Credence rounds a corner and finds himself clotheslined. He goes flying backwards, stumbling into a hard chest before arms wrap around him and drag him across the dirty concrete. He watches as the buildings on either side of the alley swallow up the moon. Then, a familiar face comes into view.   
  
“Fancy meeting you here,” the gangster says. He’s carrying something in his hands, and it glints in the ambient light from neon signs and dirty street lamps. Credence swallows, wheezing. It feels as if his throat has been crushed like a paper cup, like he’s trying to breathe through a straw. Spots cloud his vision, and Credence tries to blink them away with a level of fury born of fear. The man draws closer.   
  
“I’ll… scream,” Credence pants out. The solid body behind him shifts, laughter rumbling through it.   
  
“I’d advise against that,” the gangster chuckles. Whichever of his goons holding Credence tightens their grip, fat fingers digging into sinew and muscle. He’s being held still like some sacrifice to an ancient god, pinned down on stone and spread out for the taking. Credence tries to scream, but the butt of a gun connecting with his chin silences him. In all fairness, it isn’t the hardest blow Credence has ever received; hell, school ground bullies did worse, but it shocks Credence into losing hold of his tongue.   
  
“You think you would have learned last time, pretty thing. Wandering around by yourself isn’t safe, you know? Something might just happen.”  
  
A thick knuckled index finger slips under his quickly purpling jaw, raising Credence’s head until he can look into mean eyes. Credence wants to spit, but figures it probably isn’t a good idea. Instead, he searches for a way out. Getting away from whoever’s holding him shouldn’t be so hard, he can feel the guy’s crotch pressing up against him, a little jerk should do it. But slipping past the lead skinhead poses more of a challenge.   
  
Credence’s heart thuds painfully when he catches sight of the gun again, all cold steel with a heartless sort of shine. In that moment, Credence thinks to himself that he doesn’t want to die. He clenches his eyes shut. The skinhead laughs.   
  
“Turn him around J-”  
  
Something wet splatters across Credence, hot and sticky and metallic when it lands on his lips. The man holding Credence shrieks, before there’s an awful growling sound, animalistic and horrible, and Credence finds himself eating pavement. His palms scrape across gritty, dirty concrete, wet with refuse and god knows what else. It bites into his knees too, and Credence just knows they’ll be bloody. He scrambles away, glancing back over his shoulder and then wretches when he sees that familiar hunch, a man arched over a body.   
  
Graves glances up again, face clean of blood this time. His pupils dominate his eyes, the barrier between white and dark shifting, liquid and unfixed. Credence whimpers, pulling himself onto his ass and scrabbling backwards.   
  
“Shh…” Graves says, raising his palms, showing Credence hands like human hands.   
“Shh… It’s alright, you’re safe. I won’t hurt you, Credence, I promise I won’t. Remember? I promise I won’t hurt you.”  
  
He stays where he is, letting Credence have his space to process whatever the hell just happened.   
  
“Y-you killed them,” Credence gasps, “Oh god, you killed them, _you killed them_.”  
  
Graves shakes his head again and smiles ruefully, “No, Credence. They’ll unconscious. I mean, that one is bleeding, but it will heal. I only did it because they were going to hurt you, Credence.”  
  
_It’s true_ , that rational part of Credence’s brain hisses. They were going to hurt him, do things Credence doesn’t even want to think about, maybe even kill him. They don’t deserve Credence’s care; they don’t deserve his sympathy. He swallows down the bile, forcing the fear down with it. Graves’ smile grows a little more certain, a little less worried.   
  
“That’s it,” he coaxes gently, “That’s it, Credence. May I come over to you?”  
  
He should say no. He should scream, try to run, draw attention to himself. But instead, Credence whispers, “O-okay.”  
  
Pushing himself to his feet, Graves slowly makes his way to Credence, walking with a halting manner that is so, painfully human it is almost unnatural. The absurdity of the situation makes Credence laugh, and the noise comes out half way hysterical. He sounds like a looney. Graves crouches beside him again, taking Credence’s hand. The chill of his skin reminds Credence of the last time they touched, of the scars he still bares on his wrists. Credence shivers, but doesn’t try to withdraw his hand.   
  
“These will need cleaned,” Percival says, “And your knees. C’mon.”  
  
“Come where?” Credence asks, but lets himself be hauled upright, stumbling the first few steps and steadying himself against Percival. His knees ache with that fresh bruise intensity. His jaw throbs too, suddenly, screaming to be felt like a whiny kid that couldn’t wait it’s turn. Credence claps a hand to his face, then winces when both of his wounds sting.   
  
“The hospital,” the vampire responds, “You are hurt.”  
  
“I can’t. I don’t need to. I man, Tina - my friend - she’ll be worried. I can’t. You can… I don’t know, you can walk me home, it’ll be faster than the hospital.”  
  
Graves growls, the sound caught between a that of a cat and a dog. He shakes his head, frustrated, nose wrinkling and brows furrowing, but relents. “Fine,” he mutters, “I will walk you home.”  
  
They make their way in silence, almost painfully slow because of Credence’s knees. His ribs ache something fierce now too, and Credence wonders if he’s broken them. Tina stands in the doorway when they finally get to the brownstone, backlit by the hall light.   
  
“Credence! Where the fuck- oh my god! Newt!”  
  
She’s yelling for her husband before Credence can even explain. They’re caught up in a whirlwind of frightened Tina Goldstein, both Credence and Graves ushered inside and into the dining room. Newt brings the first aid kit, helping Tina cut away Credence’s shirt and pants. He’s dabbed with iodine and gauze and washed and bandaged, sitting in his underpants. Graves lurks nearby, fielding each of Tina’s Gatling gun fast questions with calm ease. Credence manages to fumble out some answers too, between ice chips and the ice pack pressed to his jaw.   
  
Yes, he’s alright. No, he doesn’t know who they are. Yes, they ran off. No, Credence doesn’t want to go to the police, he doesn’t have a good description of them. And besides, they’re probably much more concerned with other things beyond a kid getting beat up in an alley.   
  
“And who are you?” Tina finally asks, squinting at Graves.  
  
Graves glances at Credence, suddenly uncertain.  
  
“He’s a friend,” Credence blurts out, “He owns a bookstore!”   
  
Well, that has Newt in all sorts of excitement, and the conversation is steered away from a potentially fatal cliff.   
  
When Credence is all patched up and dressed in soft, warm clothes, he comes downstairs again to find Graves perched awkwardly on Newt and Tina’s couch, hands in his lap and spine ramrod straight. The lamplight shines in his hair, disheveled and falling into his eyes. He keeps running his hand through it too, which doesn’t help any. Credence giggles a little when Percival lets out an annoyed huff and brushes a loose lock from his face for the third time. Dark eyes swing around, locking onto Credence.   
  
“Ah,” Graves starts, “Well… I suppose I’ve done my duty, I should be-”  
  
Suddenly, the thought of Graves leaving terrifies Credence, more so than any other thought he’s had about the man. His heart seizes, and Credence takes a lurching step forward, saying, “No! I… Um… you’re welcome to stay.”  
  
Tina and Newt share a look, before a sly smile spreads across Tina’s face, “Oh, he’s _that_ sort of friend.”  
  
Credence flushes furiously at the insinuation, but can’t deny the implication makes his heart beat a little faster. He catches the way Graves inhales sharply, the way his nostrils flare and his eyes flicker to Credence’s chest for half a second.  
  
“Tina!” Credence cries, “Oh my god!”  
  
She cackles evilly, before making a shooing motion.   
  
“Go on! But be safe!”  
  
Credence wants to melt into the floor. Maybe being shot by those punks wouldn’t have been such a bad idea - he wouldn’t have had to live with the humiliation of Tina thinking he’d brought someone home to bang. Credence buries his face in his hands, and turns towards the stairs again. Graves’ foot hitting a squeaky spot actually surprises him. But he isn’t walking towards Credence, instead he’s moving towards the front door. The young man can’t help the disappointment that suddenly pierces his heart, a wooden stake driven through, splinters and all.   
  
“You’re going?”  
  
Graves gives him an apologetic shrug, “I need to get home. It was nice meeting you Tina, Newt. I’m glad you’re alright, Credence.”  
  
He lets himself out, slipping away into the night like a specter, there one instant and gone the next. Credence has never felt this sort of dejection before, and it must show on his face. Tina coos, pushing up off the couch and coming to Credence to pull him into a tight hug, “Oh honey.”  
  
It’s the second night Credence loses sleep to Percival Graves.


	6. Something Old, Something New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally getting somewhere! :D :D :D Chapter seven will be up on Sunday, I can't believe how quickly this has gone. Thank you to everyone for your support, it means a lot!

**December 1st**  


Credence isn’t sulking. He _isn’t_. And he isn’t avoiding _Graves’ Books_ , or Graves – who probably saved his _life_ – because Graves didn’t want to stay with someone who called him a freak. Credence isn’t acting like a twelve-year-old with an unrequited crush.   
  
He passes the place on the way to work every day, and every day Credence has to drag himself past the bookstore like a man going to the gallows. And he doesn’t want to admit to himself how much it _hurts_ , but it does. And everyone notices - Newt, and Tina, and Queenie, and Jacob.   
  
“Just talk to him, honey,” Tina coaxes, “C’mon. I don’t like seeing you like this. I’m sure it will be alright.”  
  
_None of it is alright_ , Credence wants to snap back, _it’s all so fucked up_. _I like this guy, but I shouldn’t, because he fucking drinks blood_. Instead, Credence shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.   
  
But that morning, a day into December, after a solid week of avoiding the bookstore something about the place draws Credence in. Snow falls around him, settling on the shoulders of Credence’s new jacket and dusting dark felt a soft grey. Snow even crunches under his winter boots, not yet driven into slush by thousands of shoes. It’s a good day, a light day, and the mood snatches Credence up and deposits him at the door to the shop. The bell rings, as it always does.   
  
Graves startles, glancing up from his journal. A million emotions flicker across those handsome features, before they settle into something like confusion. “Credence,” he says softly, “What brings you in today?”  
  
Hope runs like an undercurrent through Graves’ words, flavouring them with something painful. Credence gives Graves an awkward smile and a one armed shrug, feeling both overjoyed to see Graves again, and yet so very foolish.   
  
“I… um… You.”  
  
“Me?” Graves asks in reply, brows shooting up into his hairline. Credence follows the movement, smiling a little at the way Percival’s forehead wrinkles, and the sharp snap of his widow’s peak. Part of Credence aches to rub his thumb along those ridges, to smooth Percival’s forehead down.   
  
“Yeah,” Credence says. For a moment, silence hangs between them, heavy and strange, before Graves continues slowly, “I was… I thought you were afraid of me.”  
  
“I invited you into my apartment!” Credence squeaks. His arms fold over his chest automatically, and he leans away. It sparks a laugh from Percival, rich and rumbling but also a little sad.   
  
“You were also high on adrenaline,” Percival murmurs, “I could smell it. I was worried… Once you calmed down, you would be afraid again. And then you didn’t come in the next day, I thought I was right.”  
  
“Oh,” Credence says dumbly. He supposes if he looks at it from Percival’s perspective, it makes sense. And by lines of normality, Credence should be shrieking for the hills by now, or looking for something to stake him with, but yet when he looks at Graves, he doesn’t see a monster. He sees a man, pale and almost inhuman, yes, but still wide eyed and shy and vulnerable. He sees someone who recommends strange books he thinks will strike Credence’s fancy - they do - and makes terrible book puns and helps little old ladies order new gardening issues although he specializes in rare and ancient books.   
  
“I’m not afraid,” Credence finally chokes out, “I promise you, I’m not afraid.”  
  
He is afraid. He is so very afraid. But not of Graves. He probably should be, but he isn’t.

Graves smiles, and it’s blinding, a billion suns condensed into the way his eyes light up, and the curl of his lips. Credence smiles back, and then shuffles closer, until he’s leaning against the counter which separates them. Graves pushes his journal and pen out of the way, so they aren’t damaged. Credence leans over the counter, a little unsure, before pressing his lips to Graves’ cheek. It’s as cold as the rest of him, but smooth like he’s just shaved. Graves inhales sharply. When Credence pulls away, Graves is still grinning.   
  
“You’re a very sweet person, Credence.”  
  
Credence flushes.

* * *

 

**December 3rd  
**

  
Some people never learn. Two days later, Credence leaves the bakery around five. The sun sets early now, so it’s dark as he’s walking back. Even in the middle of rush hour, with ten thousand people crammed into a few city blocks and the streets absolutely buzzing, Credence can pick the goons out. They spot him too, because the lead skinhead, sporting stitches and a nasty bruise, glowers. Credence picks up speed, his heart leaping into his throat, and begins to look for a way to disappear into the crowd. The man advances with the speed of an oncoming hurricane, blowing people out of his way. Credence swears, starting to push through the throngs with the inborn ease of a native New Yorker, muttering _excuse me’s_ and _sorry’s_ as he goes. It’s all in vain.   
  
Yet again, Credence finds himself grabbed from behind, his breath leaving him in a gasp as someone yanks on his hood. His coat chokes him for half a moment, before his body gives in and he’s being dragged backwards. The skinhead is close now, so close, his friend holding Credence in a way that must be unassuming to the people around him. Credence’s hand dives into his pocket, and his fingers close around the pocket knife.   
  
“I’ll scream,” he hisses again, flicking open the weapon. It won’t do much, but it might get them to back off. The skinhead’s stitches pull in an ugly way. Credence wonders if Percival’s claws are responsible for that, or his fangs. A thrill runs through him.   
  
“Do it,” the skinhead mutters, “And I’ll gut ya.”  
  
“Really?” Credence hisses back, “Here? In front of all these people?”  
  
“Hmm, maybe. There’s a way to do it, make it real fast. Or you can listen to what I have to say, fag. Tell your boyfriend -”  
  
Credence spits, nailing the guy right across the wound. The gangster flinches back, ill-intent morphing into disgust morphing into rage, before he snarls and raises his fist. Credence’s lip curls, even as his body prepares for the blow. And then someone’s saying something - a young woman crying for them to let him go. The skinhead swears, and whomever is holding Credence’s hood releases him with a shove. Credence goes jerking to the side a couple of steps, smashing into a passerby, before a hand steadies him. It’s Percival, his eyes a riot of swirling emotion, absolute fury the most predominant.   
  
“I should rip their throats out,” he seethes, taking Credence by the hand and sweeping them through the crowd, back down the street and into the bookshop. Credence just goes along for the ride, a little dazed. His body is becoming far too used to random spikes of adrenaline, for he’s crashing even before Graves sits him down on one of the comfy leather couches.   
  
“It’s fine,” Credence says. Graves growls and shakes his head. The front door is locked again, so Credence knows they’re the only two inside, knows that Graves isn’t in danger of revealing himself.   
  
“It isn’t fine. They’re just going to keep coming back!”

“Hm, I don’t think so.”  
  
Percival huffs, before fixing Credence with something like disbelief. His forehead crinkles in the way it does, and his nose wrinkles too. It makes the younger man laugh, sagging back into the sofa.   
  
“He said something about telling my boyfriend something, well, before I spat in his face.”  
  
“Boyfriend?”   
  
“You, I think. You’re the one who keeps coming to my rescue. For which I am grateful, by the way.”  
  
Percival just shrugs, dipping his head again. He settles on the arm of one of the chairs, folding his leg and pressing his hands into his lap, “I’m glad I could be there. I don’t like the thought of you being hurt.”  
  
Those wide brown eyes glance up for a moment, full of a vulnerability that steals Credence’s breath away, before they flicker again. How could something, someone, so deadly, look so harmless and unassuming, Credence wonders. Out loud, he whispers, “I am too. Glad, I mean.”  
  
Graves smiles, small and shy. He glances out the window, as dusk brushes the pavement and the streetlamps flicker on, before looking at the clock.  
  
“It’s getting to be dinner time.”  
  
“Mr. Graves, are you asking me to come home with you?” Credence gasps in mock scandal, laughter dancing around the edge of his tone. Graves chuckles, “Yes, I suppose I am.”

* * *

Running with a vampire is a wild experience. Like something out of Twilight, Credence finds himself on Percival’s back, arms wrapped tightly around the man’s throat and legs interlocked around his waist. When he broaches the subject to Graves, the vampire growls at him, muttering, “I do not _sparkle_.”

They dash through the city, concrete and lights and sounds melding together with the woosh of wind in Credence’s ears and the steady way Percival breathes, the rasp of air in his lungs and the thud of his feet. They hit pavement for a while, until they breach the suburbs and the land beyond. After five minutes or so, Percival begins to sway, back and forth between trees, leaping over fallen logs and ducking to avoid branches. The trunks come rushing out of the darkness, causing Credence to shriek more than once, and drawing a reckless, booming laugh from Percival that chases them all the way to their destination.   
  
Running with Percival is like moving at the speed of light, and like standing still, all at once.   
  
Percival slides to a stop at a wrought iron fence, letting Credence clamber off his back before opening the little gate. It looks to be a century old at least, but swings open without a squeak. The snow here is a good foot deep, still relatively pristine, compared to the grey sludge the stuff in New York has become. It lies thick on the roof of a little stone cottage, too, and blankets shapes Credence assumes are summertime hedges and bushes. Evergreens surround the house, sheltering it from the wind, and giving the entire thing a timeless and rustic feel.   
  
“Come in,” Percival says softly, leading Credence up the path. The unlocks with an old skeleton key, and Credence is ushered inside. It’s like stepping back in time. Credence thinks his Medieval Studies professors might think they died and went to heaven if they ever stepped foot in this place. Everything is old and lavish, built to last and obviously having withstood the test of time. And everywhere, there are books. Shelves upon shelves, filled with texts in a hundred languages and a thousand styles - modern trashy romance and ancient first copy volumes hand printed by monks - Credence could weep.   
  
“I know it’s out of date,” Percival says softly, to which Credence replies, “This is amazing.”  
  
Percival gives him a tour, because of course he does. It has all the amenities a human might need - even modern kitchen and laundry appliances, running water, a toilet and shower and a lavish, claw footed tub. But everything is styled to be old, even if Credence catches sight of modern brand names. It’s rather adorable, he thinks.   
  
And then comes the first aid kit, sitting on the counter beside the stove. Incredulousness wells up in his chest, pressing up, up, up, an urge to laugh that comes bubbling out. Percival looks affronted for a moment, before he follows Credence’s line of sight and laughs too.   
  
“I need to keep up appearances,” he says as explanation.   
  
Apparently, appearances also mean a fully stocked fridge, and a vampire that can cook. Credence sits at the kitchen table, on a high backed chair and watches as Percival moves around, chopping onions and slicing up stewing meat, even mincing garlic.   
  
“You’re not allergic to garlic?” Credence asks over the hiss of the stir fry. Graves just rolls his eyes fondly, “No. Sunlight doesn’t bother me either, as you’ve noticed.”  
  
“How does that work, anyways?”  
  
“I get a headache, if it’s very bright out. Because me eyes are sensitive, I suppose. That myth is as old as time itself, really. People have been associating evil with the dark for a long time.”  
  
Credence hums, “And you don’t need to be invited in, either.”  
  
“No,” Graves says softly, “But if you were to believe that I couldn’t get in, really and truly believe, then I wouldn’t be able to enter.”  
  
The young man balks at that, sitting up and blinking. Graves half turns to look at him, absently mixing the stir fry. It’s such a strange image, Credence thinks, but one he could get used to. Very used to it.   
  
“It’s not the item itself, you see,” Graves continues softly, “Or even the act. It’s the belief. So holy objects, they don’t hurt me, not unless someone believes they can. And you have to believe with all your being.”  
  
“Like some people believe in God,” Credence adds, just as soft. In a box inside his mind, chained at the back and covered in cobwebs, a demon rattles its chain. He ignores it. Graves nods, shaking the pan once more before turning off the heat.   
  
“Yes.”  
  
Dinner is wonderful, flavour bursting across Credence’s tongue. He moans softly, eyes closing in bliss, “This is so good.”  
  
Graves gives him that smile again, one Credence seems to be receiving more and more these days - fond, happy, affectionate.   
  
“I’m glad, I don’t cook that often.”  
  
“But you’re eating,” Credence gestures to Graves’ plate, which has significantly less food on it, but still some. The vampire nods and hums, “Yes, I can digest human food, just much more slowly. I feel a little sluggish, is all.”  
  
Guilt floods through the younger man like a tidal wave, immediate and consuming. Graves holds up his hand, “Don’t. I know what you’re thinking. I chose to eat, Credence, don’t feel bad.”  
  
Credence huffs.   
  
At some point, the conversation returns to Credence grilling Graves about vampirism, as they finish up and clear the dishes. Washing them is faster than loading the dishwasher, and also happens to be a two-person job. Credence scrubs and Graves dries, moving around the kitchen to put things in their proper places.   
  
“Immortality?”  
  
“Hm, essentially. We don’t age, we’re frozen at whatever age we’re bitten at.”  
  
“How old are you, am I allowed to ask that?”  
  
Graves chuckles, “Of course. In human years, I’d just turned forty. In actual time, I hit me seven hundredth birthday about ten years ago.”  
Credence whistles lowly, “Wow, you really are a cradle robber. I’m twenty five.”  
  
Graves barks out a laugh, short and half surprised. He folds the dishtowel over the oven door, before coming closer, into Credence’s space. Suddenly, the human is painfully aware of how close they are, almost touching.   
  
“In order to be a cradle robber though,” Graves trails carefully, “I would have to be…”  
  
He leans in, but hesitates, face hovering just inches from Credence. Credence sucks in a breath, before whispering, “Yes.”  
  
The press of Graves’ lips on his own is long anticipated, cool and firm yet giving. Credence shudders, pressing nearer and nearer still, until their chests are flush and Credence can snake hands up into Graves hair, teasing it from its style. They kiss until Credence forgets he needs to breath and his head swims. When he pulls away, panting, Percival licks and suckles and kisses a line down his throat, nuzzling the place where his heart beats before leaving a hickey behind Credence’s ear. Credence moans, dropping a hand to Percival’s waist, tugging his shirt from his pants before sneaking a hand inside the hem. Rough, patchy skin meets Credence’s hand. He stills with a soft gasp, and Percival hisses. Credence withdraws his hand, an apology already on his lips. Graves shakes his head, eyes shutting,   
“No. Don’t. It isn’t…”  
  
He sighs heavily, stepping away just enough to unbutton his shirt and slip it from his shoulders. In the light, the scars shimmer and glitter, shiny patches of skin and two whorled knots of flesh, one dead center in the space below his pectorals, the other on the right side of his ribs. Credence feels sick, his stomach roiling unhappily and threatening to send dinner back up.   
  
“The book is right,” Percival murmurs, “The one you bought. Stakes and fire, they’re the only way to kill us.”  
  
Credence inches forward and raises a shaking hand, pressing it to the scar, where a stake once drove itself through Percival’s body. He can feel the muscle jump and play under his hand. Percival trembles at his touch. Credence dips his head, ever so slightly, inviting Percival back in with parted lips. This kiss is missing the earlier frantic pace, but the passion still simmers along the edges.   
  
Gradually, they make their way through the house, up the short flight of stairs to Percival’s bedroom and high, four poster bed. Credence sinks into a soft mattress, pulling the vampire in on top of him. They don’t go beyond that, beyond kissing slowly and cuddling close. Credence falls asleep in his clothes, with Percival caressing his hair.


	7. The End & The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here marks the end of a journey. Thank you to all those who commented, left kudos and read this story, it means so much. I'm hoping to add to this world a little bit when life isn't so mad with exams and arranging a co-op term and a horse. 
> 
> Again, thank you, and enjoy!

**December 4th**

 Something isn’t right. Credence startles awake, suddenly very aware that he isn’t in his own room, yet not quite sure where that might be. But as his brain kicks into wakefulness, gears bumping and grinding together, everything clicks back into place. Then Credence realizes Graves isn’t in bed, or even in the room.   
  
Credence slips off the bed, wandering out and down the hall. The house seems empty, still and almost lonely, and Credence might think he’d been abandoned if the scent of wood smoke didn’t draw him in. He follows it to a room off of the living space - yet another area absolutely filled with books. This though, seems to be a proper library.   
  
Graves sits on a beautiful tapestry rug in front of a roaring fire, his legs curled up beneath him. The flames dance in the hearth, casting shadows that lick up around Percival’s body, like smoke at a pyre. Suddenly, Credence can see it - Graves strapped to a stake, maybe impaled by it, as flames eat their way towards him. He feels sick again, sick and desperate to right the wrongs Graves suffered. And maybe this is penance for the terrible thoughts he’d had, but Credence thinks this punishment won’t be so bad, if it’s just an ache in his heart and an itch in his fingers to trace along scars.    
  
Credence goes to sit beside Percival, leaning in close. The fire warms Graves’ skin, makes him almost the same temperature as Credence. When Credence rests his head on Percival’s shoulder, the man leans in a little closer, kissing his forehead tenderly.

"I'm sorry, for what people did, if it means anything to you. I... when I said you were a monster I was wrong. And I do mean it, because I care."

“It does,” Graves says, “More than you know, Credence.”  
  
He reaches up, and gently caresses a lock of unruly black hair back from Credence’s face, tucking it behind one ear. Credence smiles, and Graves mirrors the image, even if the demons lurking in his eyes haven’t been beaten back completely. They talk for a little while longer, Credence’s head on Graves’ shoulder.

“Where did all these myths come from then?”  
  
Graves shrugs, staring into the flames. When Credence looks up, he watches how they reflect in the shiny surface of Graves’ corneas, making it look like the fire dances in his eyes. His face is impassive, but there is something lurking beneath the surface, like a riptide.   
  
“I don’t know, really,” he murmurs, “I think people developed them because they were afraid, and putting limits, no matter how false, on my kind’s power made them feel like they could protect themselves.”

He pauses for a moment, absolutely silent and still, before continuing, “Even now. You said it yourself, vampires don’t exist. People attempt to dictate reality to make themselves feel like they’re in control.”

Credence winces. He had hoped Percival would move past those words spoken between them, once he’d apologized, but it seems they cut deeper than he’d expected they would ever reach. Credence takes one of Graves’ hands, pulling it from his lap and intertwining their fingers.   
  
“What is real then?” Credence broaches, “What’s out there?”  
  
Percival makes a soft sound, shaking his head. He kisses Credence’s forehead again, and strokes a thumb over the young man’s hand, “That isn’t a subject for tonight,” he whispers, “I promise I’ll tell you, but not tonight, alright?”  
  
It’s fair enough, Credence supposes. He ends up falling asleep in Graves’ lap, in front of the fire. When he wakes again, he’s in the bed once more, and Graves shakes him gently. Sunlight streams in through the window, and motes of dust dance in the beams of light. Percival’s pale face fills Credence’s vision, all furrowed brows and a frown tugging his lips down.  
  
“Credence, Credence, it’s Tina, she’s upset.”  
  
Graves holds Credence’s phone out to him, the call button already pressed and Tina’s image taking up the screen. Credence winces - he’s in for a right thrashing.   
  
“‘Lo,” he mumbles.   
  
_Where are you?!  
_  
Credence winces again, holding the phone further from his ear. Graves winces too, and then disappears from the room. Traitor.   
  
“I’m at Percival’s. I’m fine, Tina.”  
  
_You didn’t call! Or even text! Do you know how worried we were? Oh my god, Credence, I thought you might be dead!_  
  
Credence rolls his eyes, “I’m fine, Tina, honestly. And besides, I think you already talked to Percival, so you know that.”  
  
Tina huffs. He can see her crossing her arms over her chest from here. He can’t help but laugh, shaking his head, “I’ll be home soon, I promise. You better make breakfast for four.”  
  
Tina grumbles, before muttering an _I love you_ and hanging up. Credence hits the disconnect button and gets up out of bed. He supposes he’s basically ready to go, considering he doesn’t have a change of clothes and Percival is already dressed. Percival does have a spare toothbrush though, for which Credence is eternally grateful.   
  
The drive back into town is uneventful, Percival’s little economy car zipping through early morning traffic with practiced ease. They pull up in front of the brownstone to find Tina waiting on the porch in her robe and fuzzy slippers.   
  
“See, I’m fine!” Credence says, opening his arms to show her. Tina rolls her eyes, taking a gulp from her coffee mug and assessing both Percival and Credence. Credence flushes under the expectant weight of her gaze, before mumbling, “We didn’t do anything naughty. We just… Percival invited me over for dinner, and then we got talking, and then it was late and I forgot to text.”  
  
He leaves out the part about the gangsters and the vampires, because he figures he’s still learning about this world, there’s no need to drag her in just yet. That and the fact that she’ll think he’s gone stark, raving mad.   
  
“Uh huh,” Tina says, but she’s smiling behind her eyes, Credence knows she is. She turns and heads back inside, throwing over her shoulder, “Breakfast is ready.”  
  
Credence begins to head after her without a second thought, before pausing just inside the entryway. Percival hovers outside, giving him that shy smile, but mischief lurks beneath the surface, dancing in those dark eyes.   
  
“Won’t you come in?” Credence asks, holding out his hand. Percival takes it, raising it to his lips before stepping across the threshold.   
  
“I’d be delighted.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think! Feedback helps me write better!


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